


Sanguine Draught

by RebelRokkr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Gen, Multi, My First Fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:28:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8475367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RebelRokkr/pseuds/RebelRokkr
Summary: - - -Mal: "What's 'sanguine' mean?"Zoë: "Sanguine. Hopeful. Plus, point of interest, it also means 'bloody.'"Mal: "Well, that pretty much covers all the options, don't it?"- Firefly, "Safe"- - -Jowan, Tamlen & Shianni are recruited into the Wardens, rather than the player characters.Experimental WIP, working title may change.Ships as yet undecided, we'll see what pops up as I have the characters interact through the story.This'll likely bounce back and forth between slightly bent canon and pure crack.I have no idea what I'm doing. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯First fic ever, so be gentle in your critiques please - my ego is small and fragile. :PNon-Con Archive Warning applies only due to Shianni's canon backstory.Rating chosen due to graphic depictions of gore / violence/ demons / darkspawn & the like.





	1. 1

 

He shivered, and hugged his knees to his chest in an effort to hold on to some body heat. The chill might not have been so terrible, were it not amplified a hundredfold by sopping wet, baggy clothes and his own terror-driven refusal to light a fire. The rain had passed an hour ago as night fell, and so the edge of this small copse of trees where he’d taken shelter became a sort of makeshift camp. His only possessions hung from a branch in a burlap sack: his apprentice robes, six apples, a waterskin and a quarter wheel of cheese, most of these and the clothes on his back had been stolen from one of the rooms of The Spoiled Princess three nights ago.

A man in leather armor (and a cowl so ugly it was surely designed as a deliberate affront to the Maker) had approached him outside as he was leaving, saying something about a “mages collective.” He’d backed away quickly, insisting he didn’t know anything about mages. _A close call, surely._ Since then he’d simply wandered, hoping he was heading in the right direction to Redcliffe, where he thought he might have a small chance of blending in.

With only a few days travel between himself and Kinloch Hold, it would be a foolish risk to use magic - Templars could be anywhere, and if they found him, the whole rotten mess would all have been for nothing. “Serves you right to freeze to death, anyway.” He said aloud, trying to shake images from his mind that he was sure he’d see in nightmares for the rest of his life. _Blood on the stone, pooling at his feet. Lily, throwing up her hands in self defense as she backed away from him, eyes wide with horror. Vida’s body, twisted unnaturally as she fell to the floor, life draining out in great red rivers that met the droplets from his hand and the sudden raw, unleashed  fury of blood and mana that forced her attackers back, flinging them across the floor like dolls. Lily sobbing and shaking her head, staring at his self inflicted wound as he reached for her, apologies and explanations streaming from his mouth..._ He exhaled, steadied himself against a wave of nausea. Putting his hands over his face, Jowan leaned back against the damp bark of the tree he sat under and choked back a pitiful sob.

“Keep it together…” He sighed. “Or, too late for that, maybe. Four days in the world and you’ve already cracked - talking to yourself in the middle of nowhere. Just _perfect_ .” He re-settled his arms around his shins, and continued, his own voice providing a strange sense of comfort even as he used it to berate himself. “Though, it’s progress, actually, if you think about it. Before, you _couldn’t_ talk to yourself. The walls had ears.” Sullenly resting his chin on his knee, he thought about who might have overheard his plan, who had listened and who had told, who was responsible for destroying all his grand hopes. A bitter note of sarcasm rang in his voice when he spoke aloud again. “That’s not really fair, though, is it? Credit where credit is due. If you’d never thought up that selfish, stupid plan, there’d have been nothing for anyone to hear. You’d be tranquil now, and you’d probably have never known the difference.” That brought an end to his one sided-conversation for a while, as he passed the next hour sulking in a silence only occasionally interrupted by the tree branches dripping rainwater around him.

It was just as well that he wasn’t in the mood to speak anymore. It would be just as senseless to be caught for yelling at himself in the dark as it would be to use magic so near to the Tower. A fire seemed the more attractive option all the same, as time passed and the cold settled in his bones. Trying to rub feeling back into his hands was a hopeless battle. His chattering teeth joined the steady drip-drop rhythm of the thicket, a chorus rounded out by a plaintive rumbling in his stomach, which he pointedly ignored.

In the end, he lit the fire anyway, with the driest twigs he could find and a tiny spark, as he looked around like a frightened wild animal. _At least a sword will be a faster than freezing._

 

~ ~ ~

 

Jowan had never once in his life had a good dream, or at least not one he remembered. Years ago, he used to stay awake for days, eventually passing out from exhaustion against his will, fitfully tossing and turning as the demons called out to him.

Over time, he’d gotten a little better at avoiding his pursuers in the Fade, having discovered ways to conceal himself, to reappear elsewhere, even to change his surroundings to make the chase more difficult. It was never enough, of course. Pride or Envy would find and corner him, and the less powerful demons often came in groups. It was frequently more exhausting than simply staying awake.

The last few nights had been so much worse than the nightmares that plagued him as a boy. His enemies had new material to exploit, and it was often a monumental effort to even just redirect the flow of the conversation, when it was Lily or Vida that he had to face each night, prodding at his guilt and coaxing him to help them.

He recognized the setting, or rather, he understood what it meant to be, as he found himself in a twisted mockery of the Circle Tower’s chapel. Bits of the walls had broken away and floated listlessly in a thick, greenish fog, the floor was uneven and rippled slightly if he looked at it directly. The air - if there was such a thing here - seemed almost too thick to breathe, too hot for comfort.

“ _Very_ convincing.” He said dryly. “The pews on the ceiling are a great finishing touch.” _Might as well make the best of it, it’s going to be a long one,_ he thought, and attempted to amuse himself by squinting at the one of the stone benches above him and making a small gesture, causing it to fall from the ceiling and slowly float down in front of an almost unrecognizably disfigured statue - a sort of demonic impressionist sculpture of Andraste. The bench landed upside down, and he couldn't force it to right itself. It was always hit or miss, changing things here.

He turned to the statue.

With a little concentration, the idol’s form shifted under his gaze, very slowly beginning to untangle, as a familiar voice with a new echo woven into it rang out from somewhere behind him. “They were wrong to have underestimated you, my friend.” Vida’s voice, but in a tone she’d never have used. Jowan’s skin crawled.

“Maker’s breath, you’re awful at this.” He said past the lump in his throat that appeared despite the glaring inaccuracies.

The demon who wore her face came out from behind him now: the short, round, bronze-skinned elven woman he remembered, but with an ethereal shimmer to her that was almost imperceptible, and entirely _wrong_. It looked up at him through her eyes, and his stomach lurched.

“How many templars died from the first blast? And how many more down the hall on the way out, before even a seasoned Grey Warden could react? And here in my domain, you change things on a whim, as though this place belongs to you.” The demon lowered its voice to a conspiratorial whisper as it continued. “They intended to make you tranquil not because you wouldn’t have passed the Harrowing, but because they _knew_ they would not be able to leash someone so _strong_ forever.”

Jowan rolled his eyes at the absurdity. “I really don’t think you’ve been paying attention. They planned on the Rite because I’ve been plagued by demons since birth, _maybe you’ve heard something about it_ \- oh, and because, y’know, _blood magic_ . The templars do tend to get their skirts all bunched up about that sort of thing.” _Good. Keep the facade up, Envy hates ridicule…_

“Power in abundance, and blatant disregard for the law. You must see how you are the confirmation of every fear, that _you_ have the advantage. And I can make you even stronger...” The false friend put a hand on his shoulder then, familiar and lifelike, and he unconsciously leaned into the touch despite himself. The weight in his chest tightened around his heart as he thought of the real Vida Surana. _Run through with a broadsword and bleeding out, ragged breathing that came to a sudden halt within moments. The awful stillness. Please, please wake up. I’m so sorry. I never wanted any of this._

“You know, Envy, I almost wish you could learn how awful it is to be feared all your life. You can drop her face, it’s not working.”

“Oh, but I like this face. You try to deny it, but it is having an effect…” Too-bright blood droplets appeared at the corners of the demon’s mouth, quivering for a moment then running down over her chin and splashing onto a distorted version of the brand-new mage robes she’d died in… He shuddered, and the demon laughed, too high and too loud. He jerked his arm back, out of it’s reach.

“She died helping you, she must have valued your friendship _very_ highly. We can avenge her…” The demon bared bloodied teeth in a cruel smile.

He tried to laugh, instead a mirthless sound escaped his throat. “Wrong again, I’m afraid. It was weakness she saw, what everyone sees. She was kind, and foolish enough to pity me. It was a terrible waste.”

“A waste only if you make nothing of her sacrifice! We could make them pay. For her, for Lily-”

“Don’t.” He warned quietly, through clenched teeth.

“We could end them all, everyone who hurt you - make it so no mage suffers at templar hands ever again. Make it so everyone can love who they choose. We could change the whole world, you and I.”

 _And there’s the pitch,_ Jowan thought as his heartbeat sped up, _now to be done with this._ “Paradise by possession? Sounds just delightful.” And this time he did laugh, making a show of how heartily amused he was by its proposal. “I guess no one told you, this is always where they lose me. I never wanted to be feared, I never wanted vengeance, or power, or to change the whole world. I just wanted you arseholes to leave me _alone._ ” He thought about adding another fake laugh for effect, and decided he couldn’t trust his voice not to shake.

“Well, you’re definitely alone now. You have no one left. Those you didn’t kill, you condemned to a fate worse than death.” The demon spat, red droplets flying forth from her lips, sailing through the air too slow and then stopping, suspended. “Surana was right. You’re pathetic.”

“So _very_ sorry to disappoint.”

Jowan awoke then, to streaks of grey dawn light slashing through the clouds above, and the demon’s voice in his ears, drowning out his own uneven breathing. “You wanted power once, when you sought out the forbidden magics. You will want it again. I’ll be ready.”


	2. 2

A nightmare each night since he’d left the tower wasn’t remarkable in and of itself. But the dreams rattled him more than they had in a while. Learning a bit of rudimentary blood magic had dampened his connection to the Fade just enough to make himself slightly harder to reach, for a while, but the effect seemed to be lessening now - his trauma made the demons stronger than the Veil, perhaps.

It was even worse when they appeared as Lily - but after he had escaped the Desire demon that had tried it two nights ago, word seemed to have gotten round through the Fade that that exit route was closed. It was still only a matter of time before another one wore her face. He tried not to think about it.

As he focused on calming his breathing and pushed the dreams to the back of his mind for now, he found that for the first time in days he was relieved to be completely alone - if for no other reason than that no one was around to see the large circle of saliva soaked fabric on the right arm of his stolen shirt. Sleeping in a half-upright position on the hard ground had done a number on his spine and joints, and he rubbed his aching neck as he slowly stood. His vision swam for a moment, and stubbornly remained blurry for a little longer than usual after he rubbed his eyes. “Food.” He said, remembering he hadn’t let himself eat the night before.

The fire had gone out sometime during the night, but after the overwhelming impression of heat he’d felt in the Fade, the cool air now felt like a reprieve. He reached up for the burlap sack, taking an embarrassing amount of time working out the knot he’d tied yesterday. When he’d finally wrenched it free with a good deal of effort and swearing, he did so with such force that he stumbled backward for a moment. The dizziness didn’t help.

He broke off a piece of the cheese and selected an apple, eating them as he looked around “camp.” The patch of trees was the only notable landmark. He’d strayed from the edge of the lake and the road in hopes of evading capture, but of course now that meant he was hopelessly lost, and wandering conspicuously across mostly open country. _Naturally._

“No idea where you are, no idea where to go. No idea which direction you’re even facing, _right now_. Never paid attention in geography. Excellent work, Jowan. Just fantastic.” He grumbled to himself with a mouth half full of apple. He finished the meager breakfast, tossing the core over his shoulder, and set off at random because, frankly, he didn’t know what to do besides keep moving, even if he didn’t know where to. Any direction would do as long as it took him far from Lake Calenhad.

Six days ago, he’d been absolutely sure this would be the easy part. Circumstances had been worlds different at the time, but he knew now how unfathomably stupid he’d been to let his mind drift off into fantasies while Lily talked about how they would get to Redcliffe. He’d intended to follow her lead, relying on her knowledge of the outside world, and now of course that wasn’t an option. Not only was she to be confined in a heavily guarded magical prison - but she’d also utterly denounced him. If he’d thought himself a smarter, braver man, perhaps he’d have tried to come up with a plan to rescue her, prove his love and worthiness… and something about that thought gnawed at him. It all felt … hopeless.

He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head as though that would rattle the offending line of thought from his brain.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Five more days of wandering alone in the featureless grasslands and eating a few plants and roots he’d been only about 70% sure of had certainly begun to take a toll. Hungry, light-headed, exhausted from refusing to sleep for the last two nights... and he found himself, having apparently given up all pretense of sanity or secrecy, yelling at full volume in the middle of a barren field.

“ _Nine!_ Nine days and not _one_ other person. No houses. No villages! Not a _fucking_ clue where in _Thedas_ you are. Nothing at all, except all this _blighted_ grass! _Fuck!_ ” He kicked the ground, sending a clod of earth sailing up through the air that trailed bits of dead grass and leaves and landed with a soft _thud_ several feet away. He sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking as he sobbed. _I can’t do this. I can’t. I give up._

He didn’t know how long he cried, but eventually he fell silent, staring at the ground in front of him with unfocused eyes, shoulders slumped, tear tracks drying on his cheeks. He was dimly aware of noise off to his right somewhere, but what did it matter?

Something tapped his shoulder, ever so gently. He ignored it at first, sure that he’d fallen asleep and that this was some denizen of the fade with an appropriated face, come to haunt him again. The tapping persisted. “Please.” He whispered. “Please, stop. I _can’t_.”

“I’m sorry!” said a completely unfamiliar voice. “Are you alright?” It sounded like a young woman. _Might as well see what the new tricks the demons have cooked up while I’ve been away,_ he thought.

He slowly looked up, indeed finding a young woman standing over him. Concerned brown eyes and a round face framed by soft waves of dark hair. Cheeks flushed as though she’d been running. It began to dawn on him that she’d asked a question, and he could only shrug in response, still uncertain that she was even real.

_Wait,_ he thought. _She doesn’t have that … shimmery …_ thing _the demons do. I’m... awake._ “I’m… sorry.” he finally managed, “What did you say?” He looked at her, the first actual person he’d seen in what felt like ages. She had a satchel over one shoulder, and a wooden staff on her back - _could she… no, not everyone with a walking stick is a mage._ _Right?_

“Here, let me help you up.” The woman said, offering a hand. He took it - soft but solid and real - within his own hand as she helped him to his feet. His eyes stung. Before he could say a word of thanks, his stomach growled loudly. She steadied him by throwing his arm over her shoulders, as he seemed to be a bit wobbly. “What happened to you? Are you lost?”

“I am. Completely lost, very hungry, and extremely tired. I was…” _Quick, Jowan, think-_ “My cart was taken by bandits. I’ve been wandering since. I was supposed to meet a friend, in Redcliffe.” _Well. It’s not entirely unlikely_ , he hoped.

“How awful!” She said. “I hate to tell you you’re quite a ways from Redcliffe, though. We’re just outside Lothering, in fact.” She hesitated for a moment, before adding, “I’ll take you to my house, you can get a decent meal and stay for a bit, get some rest. Things will start to look better.”

He felt like he had just enough control over his balance now to walk on his own. But he found he didn’t want to let go, even as she started walking, half carrying him - and even as he hated himself for being so weak willed. He felt like if he let go she would disappear. Or perhaps he would. Either way, a return to loneliness.

“I’m Bethany,” she said, moving his arm from her shoulder but continuing to steady his elbow, “I live in the village. I come out here... to be alone, sometimes.”

“Oh, naturally.” he replied. “Who wouldn’t? It’s just lovely.”

She had a pretty laugh. “It’s not ideal, I suppose, but it’s quiet.”

From another life, he remembered the feeling of wanting to be alone, of actually seeking solitude. It seemed so _trivial_ now.

“I’m sure Mother has supper on the fire by now -” her sentence was interrupted by another protest from Jowan’s stomach. “- and I’m sure she’d be happy to let you stay a night or two, considering what you’ve been through.”

“I’m very grateful for your kindness.”

“Don’t worry about it at all, she always makes enough for an army, and I’m sure we’ve an extra pallet somewhere. You look like you’ve been through the Void, it’s the least anyone could do.”

His face cracked into a smile, and somewhere in his chest, for the first time since smashing his phylactery, he felt the tiniest bloom of hope.  


~ ~ ~

 

The road to Lothering wasn’t far from where she’d found him, and they walked it at a leisurely pace, Bethany still steadying him by one arm though he seemed to be keeping his balance, for which he was more grateful than she’d ever know.

He noticed the clouds had parted at some point, the sun warm and pleasant, the air crisp and sweet. He felt… lighter.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name.” Bethany said after a while.

“Oh! Sorry. It’s, uh, Levyn.” He bit his lip, “I seem to have forgotten my manners, in the wake of all that’s happened.”

She smiled and patted his shoulder. “It’s understandable.” Pointing at a group of buildings down the road, she added, “We’re almost there. A hot meal and some clothes that fit will set you right as rain again.”

“Clothes…?”

She indicated his sleeves, which he’d unconsciously adjusted several times during their walk. “These are a few sizes too big, surely you’ve noticed?”

Jowan sheepishly looked down at the clothes he’d stolen from the inn, mismatched and clearly far too big. “Hand-me-downs.” He said quickly. “Three older brothers, not a whole lot of money, you know how it goes... ” He cursed himself for not coming up with a backstory sooner. _It’s not as if you didn’t have time to think about it. And now she’ll figure you out and have every right to call the templars in…_ He found himself hoping he’d at least get a meal in before his secrets were discovered, since it was inevitable.

She wasn’t looking at him, though, focused on leading him around through a small camp of what appeared to be refugees, and past a lone templar. Jowan averted his gaze as his blood ran cold, but Bethany gave the templar a friendly wave, which was reciprocated stiffly by the man, clearly hindered by full plate armor.

Bethany’s home was at the edge of town, a cute little cottage, cozy-looking despite obviously needing a few repairs. As they approached, Jowan noticed a lanky young woman in a cowl was balanced on the porch railing, tying bundles of herbs to the edge of the roof. Below her, keeping a watchful eye, sat … _was that a Mabari hound?_ He’d only read about them, seeing one in person was remarkable. She turned to face them as their footsteps crunched over the dirt path to the front steps.

“Beth!” She said, all freckles and wide smile, a wild tuft of deep auburn hair escaping her hood as she jumped down from her perch. “I was starting to get worried. I was about to send Bernard.” The dog barked happily at this, puffing out his chest as though to say he’d have been pleased to come to Bethany’s rescue. “Oh, you’ve brought a friend!” Jowan shifted uncomfortably, dropping his arm suddenly from Bethany’s supporting hand, as the woman unabashedly looked him up and down, then turned curious eyes back to Bethany.

“Yes, sister, don’t you recognise our _cousin_ ? He’s come to visit us all the way from _Kirkwall_ .” Bethany told her, and for a moment Jowan frowned in confusion, until the tall ginger put a finger to her lips with a wink. _Oh, it’s... a code?_

“Of course I do!” Came the jovial reply. “How’ve you been, Bill? It’s been _ages_.” She motioned for them to get inside the house.

The smell of food, savory and mouth-watering, assaulted him immediately as he crossed the threshold. He steadied himself on a nearby chair, weak at the knees.

“Are you alright?” Bethany asked, as the other girl shut the front door.

“I’m fine, thank you. It smells incredible in here.”

The ginger pulled back the edges of her hood and gave the air an investigative sniff. “Mutton… leeks… carrots. Leftover stew.” She looked to the dog, who seemed to actually _nod_ . What he’d read must be true. _Just smart enough not to talk._ “Where’d you find this one?” The woman asked Bethany, nodding at Jowan. “Third stray this season. You’re as bad as I am. Carver’s gonna be just _thrilled_.” Another grin.

“I don’t want to cause any trouble -” Jowan said, already moving toward the door.

“Oh, nonsense,” scoffed the ginger, throwing an arm around his shoulders and leading him to the table in the center of the room. “You’ll at least get a proper meal before we let you go, even our sourpuss brother wouldn’t begrudge you that. What’s your name, friend?”

“Levyn.” He said, more than a little proud that he hadn’t hesitated this time.

“Of course it is, dear.” She said, with another grin. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Jules, and on behalf of all of us here, I’d like to welcome you to Hawke’s Halfway House For Apostates And Alleged Maleficarum.” As she made a sweeping gesture over the cluttered room, his jaw nearly hit the table.

He began to stutter a protest and Jules bent over, laughing heartily. Even Bethany started to giggle after a moment, as her less refined sister gasped for air between belly laughs. “You should have seen your face. Oh, you precious thing, you’re the worst liar. You’re very lucky it was Beth who found you. Maker, that’s …” the rest of her sentence dissolved away into laughter. She gave him a playful punch to the shoulder. “Relax, Lev. You’re among friends.”

With that, both sisters raised their right hands, each gently cradling a small, flickering flame in their palms.

“...Oh.” Was all he could say, as he slumped into a chair, reeling. “Oh.”

“Don’t be mean, Jules, he’s had a bad day. And he almost had me fooled for a moment, with a wild tale about a bandit ambush.”

That set Jules into another fit, “Oh, you can’t be serious. He’s got ‘freshly apostated’ written all over him. It’s _astounding_ that Maron didn’t stop you.”  
“We’ve seen worse, don’t worry.” Bethany tried to be reassuring, but Jowan was beet red and silent. “Once we had a visitor who swore up and down he was minor Orlesian nobility. The worst fake accent I’ve ever heard. You kept it simple, that’s a good start, really. Just need to work on your diamondback face.” She sat down in a chair next to him and patted his hand. “You’re safe here. At least for a little while.”

“Oh, Maker give me strength, I’d almost forgotten about His Majesty the Grand Duke of Dunnoshite. Hoooboy. I’ll tell my _grandchildren_ about that one.” Jules wiped tears from her eyes and sat down opposite Jowan, appearing to try and catch her breath.

“Julian? Bethany? Girls, what’s going on in here?” Said a woman with greying hair who had appeared suddenly in a doorway at the back of the room, wiping her hands on a worn apron. “Oh! We have company. I see. Hello!”

Both girls nodded. “I invited our _cousin_ for supper, and I don’t think he’d be … comfortable staying at the chantry…” Bethany trailed off, looking at her mother hopefully.

“I’ll have your brother set up the pallet in here after dinner. Can’t be more than a few days, though, we’ve _got_ to be more careful. They’re going to start wondering how much Gamlen gets around, with all his supposed children filtering through here five times a month.” She turned to Jowan and offered a genuine smile, “not to make you feel at all unwelcome, I just worry about my children, you understand, I’m sure. You’re welcome to food and rest, and tomorrow we’ll help you plan a route, if you need.”

“Yes ma’am. Thank you. Thank you all for everything.” Jowan replied, even redder than he had been with Jules laughing at him. _They’re all so kind. They don’t know how little I deserve it._

“People like us… have to have each other’s backs. Without each other, we’re just lone targets. Easy pickings.” Jules said soberly, and everyone looked at her, a testament to how rarely she said anything serious. She shrugged awkwardly.

Their mother turned to the great hound that sat at Jules’ feet. “Bernard, go and fetch Carver, please. The stew’s ready.”

Carver was less than pleased about another “cousin,” as predicted - but before the meal was over he just as sociable and lighthearted as the rest. With each moment that passed, Jowan was more and more amazed at how comfortably and easily they they all fit together. He could scarcely recall his own family, and what he was able to remember was… _no. I don’t have to think about that right now._

By the time he collapsed on the straw-filled pallet, sleepy and sated, he felt like he’d known them all for years.

And the stew was quite probably the best food he’d ever had in his life.

 


	3. 3

Jowan found himself slowly waking up, to the sounds and scent of breakfast being cooked nearby, which was by far the most pleasant way to be roused from sleep. With his eyes still closed, he lazily rolled over onto his back, a contented smile on his lips. _A few more minutes… so lovely not to dream, sleep like_ this _must be what people had been talking about all those yea-_ And with that, his eyes popped open, and he sat up, torn between laughter and tears at the completely foreign sensation of being well-rested. Stifled laughter won out, he lost himself in the joy of it for a few precious moments of bliss with one hand pressed over his mouth. His first taste of what it might be like to be genuinely free of it all.

It dawned on him slowly that if anyone heard him, he’d have to explain, and he wasn’t sure he could, even to a houseful of allies. Even Vida had thought his chronic nightmares very strange, always bringing him books from the Circle’s library that might have held some hint at how to treat his unique condition. Some nights, back when they’d both been apprentices, Vida would pay some favor to that noodle-haired templar that mooned over her, so that she could sneak in and sit with him when his sleep talking could be heard all the way over in the next dormitory. Lily had been confused, and worried over him constantly. She was never able to be there to comfort him when he woke up gasping and in a cold sweat in the middle of the night, it would have meant risking discovery. It was one thing for a few templars to suspect and joke about his friendship with Vida, but discovering his relationship with Lily would have been an absolute disaster. _‘Course it ended up completely fucked anyway._

These thoughts deflated his mood rather effectively, and he cleared his throat, regaining some composure. It was then that he noticed the dog, Bernard, looking at him from across the room, head cocked to the side as though wondering what was wrong with him. “Uh, hello.” Jowan tried. The Mabari huffed and walked out of the room. “...All right then.”

Jowan stood up, then, and hunched over to fold up the blankets and set them on one corner of the straw mattress. He wondered what it was about this place that had given him the best night of sleep he’d ever experienced, briefly entertaining the notion of asking Bethany if the house was … warded, or something, but in the end he decided that bringing it up at all was more risk than it was worth. The less he had to explain about himself, the better. _I’m already enough of a bother, even without the whole ‘demon-plagued’ bit._

He made his way to the kitchen to investigate the wonderful smell wafting from it (fried potatoes, and also perhaps sausages and eggs?), but stopped short when he heard hushed voices ahead of him.

“Look, I want to help people as much as you do. But two mages under one roof, a stone’s throw from a Chantry crawling with templars, that is _already_ risking far too much. I get it, I do. But I don’t want to see either of my sisters taken to the Circle.”

“Like hell you don’t. You’d finally get your own room.” A frozen pause. “This will be the last one. For a while. Probably.”

“It’ll have to be. Things are going from bad to worse, and quickly. The refugees are already pouring in, and I’m being called to Ostagar. I won’t be here to defend -”

“Carver. Shut. Up.”

“I’m serious! If anything happens to either of you, it’ll destroy Mother!”

“But you going off to _war,_ that’s just _dandy_.”

Awkward silence, and then the smell of charred meat. A cough.

“I think those are done.”

“Yeah.” Cough. “Probably.”

Jowan decided to back away from the kitchen and sit at the table, rather than be discovered eavesdropping. In the nick of time, it seemed, because as soon as he rested his elbows on the table, Jules was swaying out of the kitchen carrying two steaming cast-iron pans. “Morning!” she said cheerfully, before calling out “Mother! Bethany! Breakfast!”

She sauntered to the table and paused for a moment, looking at the pans. “Would you be so kind?” She said to Jowan as she gestured with one of the pans to her hip, where two towels were tucked into a leather belt.

“Oh. Sure.” Jowan took the towels and spread them out on the middle of the table.

“Thanks, Lev. I didn’t quite think this through.”

“You? I’m shocked.” Came Carver’s voice as he appeared behind her with a tray of scones that already had a towel folded neatly underneath it. All in all, by the time Leandra and Bethany slowly crept into the room (the latter rubbing her eyes and nearly walking into a chair), there were five tempting dishes on the table. Jowan had to sit on his hands to keep from being rude and just diving for the nearest plate.

“All of this looks amazing, and smells even better.” He said, taking a deep, contented breath.

“Half of it’s burnt and none of it’s exactly _fancy_ \- what do they feed you poor bastards in the Circle?” Jules asked as she piled her plate with potatoes, black pudding, eggs, scones and mushrooms.

Jowan looked down at the table. “It’s all very basic. Gruel in the mornings and boiled something-or-other for dinner. They have the tranquil do most of the cooking, mostly because the tranquil like to be … kept busy. If they like anything at all, I guess. Also, they don’t usually let the mages and apprentices handle knives without supervision.” He thought of the small boline he’d managed to slip up his sleeve during an herbalism lecture - _the same one that had clattered to the floor with blood on the blade when_ … he shook his head. “Anyway, apparently when a person’s connection to the fade goes, all sense of taste goes with it.”

“I don’t imagine I’d care much about adding spices if my whole life was a grey blur, either.” Bethany said. Carver huffed, and took the opportunity to fill his plate, as Leandra and her daughters were quiet for a moment.

Until Jules bit into a scone and said “Carver. You cook like a tranquil.” Through a mouthful of crumbs. “These are _terrible_.”

“I followed the recipe!” He frowned, picking up the scone from his plate and giving it a tentative nibble.

“Wait, not the one that’s tucked in the back of the cookbook?” Leandra asked, setting her scone down untouched. “It’s Gamlen’s. Never use that one.”

“I didn’t know he cooked.” Bethany said, confused.

“He doesn’t. Not really. He sent that one recipe a few years back, when he used to write us more often. I’ve always suspected it’s not even a real recipe. Maybe it’s a coded message. Or a mistranslated formula for _gaatlok_.” Jules said with a chuckle.

Jowan didn’t mind his scone at all, but he thought everything on his plate was still better than any food he’d ever had.

After breakfast, Leandra left the room for a moment and came back with a ragged but intricately painted old map, which she spread out on the table as Bethany cleaned the dishes up. “I thought it would be helpful if you could visualize a route, though I can’t send the map with you, I’m afraid.”

“This was Father’s. That hole in Lake Calenhad is where he stuck a knife through Kinloch Hold.” Jules said proudly.

“Appropriate.” Jowan nodded.

“I was thinking, you said you were heading to Redcliffe. Do you have friends there?” Jules asked, tapping Redcliffe Village on the map.

“No. I just thought I might be able to blend in, find work… I’ll be the first to admit that I really have no idea what I’m doing.” Jowan shrugged.

“Well, here’s the thing. There’s a Mages’ Collective representative stationed in Redcliffe usually - Brandel, I believe his name was - but I think he’s laying low at the moment. Heard his family’s being investigated, so he’ll be hard to find. Meanwhile, it’s a much longer journey to Denerim, but I think you’d be safer there. Plus the Collective there is thriving, you can spot the guy with the ugly cowl from a hundred paces away, right there by the market, and no one bats an eye.”

“What is the Mages’ Collective? Someone tried to approach me about it back at the docks, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood to be openly discussing mages with anyone at the time.”

Jules chuckled. “Poor Daniel. He never gets any recruits so close to the Tower. Everyone’s too jumpy.” She leaned back in her chair. “It’s sort of branch of the mage underground. Various operatives throughout Ferelden, and possibly beyond the borders, I’m not entirely sure. Anyway they mainly just try to protect apostates, warn them against impending danger, smuggle a bit of lyrium here and there. They Mother won’t let me smuggle for them -”

“Of course not, it’s too dangerous.” Leandra insisted.

“- but I slip information to them when I know something, and it’s give and take. We know when to stay indoors.”

“I see. That’s quite an organization.” Jowan exhaled slowly, thinking. “... I originally intended to give up magic completely. Live a quiet, mundane life, you know?”

Jules shook her head emphatically. “You can’t just give up something that’s a part of who you are, Levyn. And you escaped the Circle, which is no small feat, believe me. We’ve got an _actual_ cousin living there still. Someone like you could really help people.” Now, Jules was the one to sigh. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how to live your life. And you’ve surely earned some peace after growing up in prison with the threat of tranquility looming over you. I just... think you should consider it, that’s all.”

He found himself nodding. It was an attractive thought, being a part of a secret resistance, protecting others and offering them safe haven… but was it even possible? _Would they even want my help?_


	4. 4

The morning was clear and bright, a change from two days of torrential downpour that had kept Jowan indoors, relying on the Hawkes’ kindness for longer than he claimed he would have liked. Bethany and Jules had both insisted he wait, and the idea hadn’t been a tough sell.

But now the sun was shining, and he hesitated at the door. As much as he despised being a burden, it was hard to just walk away from the only place he’d ever felt  _ welcome _ .

“Promise you’ll write! We’ll need regular updates about all of your thrilling heroics.” Jules said with her trademark grin-and-shoulder-punch.

“Of course.” His eyes were stinging.  _ Oh, come on, don’t break down now, you just met them for Andraste’s sake… _

“Keep safe.” Bethany said, smiling.

“Good luck.” Carver chimed in.

Leandra straightened the collar of the shirt they’d given him, an old one of Carver’s. “Keep to the road. Be careful. And,  _ don’t  _ smuggle, it’s not worth the risk.” She smiled, a little sadly, and for a moment he wanted to hug her and cry on her shoulder, as though she were his own mother. He stifled the urge to embrace her and turned toward the road.

A couple of tentative steps, then he turned back, and in a low tone, so as to avoid being overheard by the neighbors, he said, “thank you. Thank you all so much. I will forever be grateful.”

“Don’t go all mushy now, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. Now, git.” Jules smiled at him, making a “shoo!” gesture.

“You’re welcome, Levyn. Be careful out there.” Bethany said, waving. He turned and walked, sure that his voice would falter on the syllables of “goodbye.”

He tried to push thoughts of turning right back around and begging to stay from his mind, focusing on the road under his feet. After a few minutes, he let himself look up, eyes thankfully still dry, but barely. The village was pretty in a way he couldn’t quite fit to words, something he hadn’t immediately noticed on the walk in, too distracted by the templar. The only way he could try to describe the feeling he got, standing at the crossroads, was something trite and sappy about a community taking care of each other and lending a hand to the refugees steadily streaming in, families and friends and people living out in the open air - surviving a world where unimaginable horrors took place somewhere far away. “The atmosphere was still somewhat hopeful, then,” would be the only thing he’d manage to say about it later, thinking of the dilapidated farmhouses, simple clothes strung on lines and fluttering in the breeze, laughing children playing tag in muddy paths around linen tents.  _ The last blight was a distant memory, this kerfluffle would surely all blow over soon, and everyone would be back to rebuilding and bustling through their busy lives within weeks, certainly… _

The crossroads. Worn stone steps leading to a raised road with pointed arches rising from it at intervals. He stood at the top of the steps and looked out over the town. To his right, the path to Redcliffe Village.

Jowan squared his shoulders and took the path to his left, off to Denerim.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Jowan’s footsteps scuffed along over the smooth stone, a steady scraping sound, and he couldn’t decide if it was amplified by the structure of the arches, or by his imagination as he noticed he seemed to be the only one on the road today.

The first few hours weren’t so bad, as he passed the time thinking about what he might say to the Collective representative (Adam, apparently) when he arrived in Denerim. He decided it was still best to keep up the “Levyn” persona, albeit with a few more necessary details. He recited the story to keep the details fresh in his mind. “Levyn escaped two months ago, and has been taking odd jobs in Lothering for a while, helping farmers with the harvest and helping older people with household chores. With the influx of people in Lothering recently, thinking someone might recognize him, he has decided to head toward Denerim, with the aid of his friends who said they’d send a letter ahead. Levyn would like to specialize in helping find safehouses. Levyn would even wear the hideous cowl. Levyn believes in himself and is ready to help.” He paused, adjusting the small pack he’d made out of the stolen burlap sack. Within, the coins Jules had made from the sale of his apprentice robes jingled.  “Levyn sounds great. Like a real stand-up sort of guy. Sure wish I were him.” He said with a bitter little laugh.

The road ahead gave way to a well-worn dirt path around the time Jowan lost sight of Lothering on the horizon, as the sun began to set. His legs were tired and his feet were sore, having been spoiled by three days of rest. He would have to camp soon. Worse, he would be obliged to attempt sleeping - an idea he did not look forward to after his oh-so-brief reprieve from being demon bait.

A merchant cart, led by a donkey and with a tattooed dwarf at the reins, passed him then, teetering dangerously around the bend in the road ahead and noisily crunching along on the dirt. The driver barely spared him a passing glance, and soon even the cacophony of hooves and wheels was only a memory behind him. Jowan tentatively stepped back onto the path from where he’d jumped aside to avoid being run down. “Well. The nerve of some people.”

Jowan looked around as the light faded, the sun slipping lazily behind a gentle hill. There were few trees, but he did spy a couple of them nearby that might be a good place for camp. It would have to do, he didn’t want to try and set up a tent for the first time ever in complete darkness.

“Alright, Levyn, here we go.” He said as he slipped his pack off of his shoulder and pulled out a large linen sheet, which had been purchased from an incredibly rude merchant near the refugee camp, with a small part of the robe proceeds. A length of twine and four wooden stakes followed. “First step: find a rock.” He looked around and eventually located one - by stubbing his toe on it. “Ow. Fuck. Ok step one is complete. Ow. Step two: Tie rope around two trees.” This part was easy, and frankly he probably overdid the knots. “Three: Throw the sheet over, and pin it down.” He did so, using the rock to clumsily hammer the stakes into the ground. He then stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Well, you’ve ruined a perfectly good sheet. Look at it, it’s all crooked and bunched up.” He sighed, but couldn’t help a small smile, because it may have been an offense to tents everywhere, but dammit it was  _ his  _ and frankly he was just happy it seemed to be relatively stable.

Now for the fire, and his first try in a long time of setting one in a mundane way. As a boy, his Primal School instructor had him and the other apprentices light a fire with flint and tinder so they could study the flames before they attempted to create them out of nothing. Fire spells had been the first thing he’d done rather well, and they’d set the expectations of his teachers too high for nearly every lesson that followed. He grimaced at the memories as he rummaged blindly for the flint under the other items in his pack. Finally finding it, he set about gathering twigs, and then spent entirely too long trying to make a spark. By the time tiny flames began to lick tentatively at the pile of green branches, he was already shivering. _ But _ , he told himself, _ you did it _ .

He sat down between the pitiful fire and his dilapidated tent, rubbing his hands together. “Not too bad, Levyn. Not too bad.” The fire eventually picked up, and the smoke rising from it was thick and black but at least it wasn’t blowing in his face. 

He had a leftover scone and a bit of cheese for dinner, thinking of the Hawkes. “Maker, bless them for their kindness. May they forever be free of the Circle, and may Carver come back from safe from Ostagar.” He prayed, eyes closed and voice hoarse. He sat with his knees pulled up to his chest again, arms wrapped around his shins, an almost subconscious self-comforting position he often found himself in after waking from a nightmare.

Another cart barrelled by on the road, he watched it pass but in the dim light he couldn’t make out any details. He stared into the flames, and wished he’d brought something to read, something to escape into the pages of and forget for a while.

His thoughts strayed to Lily, how different things might be now if she had run with him. But she hadn’t wanted to, she’d given up on him at the exact moment he’d needed her most. On the one hand, how could he blame her? He was a monster, a  _ maleficar _ . But she had looked at him like a stranger, she hadn’t even let him begin to explain. The few words he had managed had come out all wrong, some garbled nonsense about “only dabbling” and “trying to be a stronger mage.” _ What a mess. _

Yes, he’d lied, but he had intended never to use magic again, and had only slashed his hand open to protect her.  _ It was a last resort, how could she not see that?  _ He folded his arms over his knees and rested his forehead on them. _ The problem is, you knew all along what you were. You hoped she would never see - or that she would love you anyway. But she doesn’t. She doesn’t love you now that she knows who you are. _ Lifting his head for a moment, he ran the fingers of one hand over the poorly healed scar in the palm of the other. Healing magic had never come easily to him, and he would carry this memento forever.

The fire had slowly dwindled down to a few glowing embers, and he poured a bit of water on them from his waterskin and pulled a small wool blanket from his bag. He didn’t have a proper bedroll, but he wouldn’t sleep well either way so it hardly mattered.

Curling up in the blanket under his tent, head resting on his arm, he briefly entertained the idea of praying for safe, happy dreams. But the prayer, one he’d repeated so often as a child it had sounded like a mantra, had never been answered before. The nights at the Hawke house had been different, the Veil there felt as though it had been...  _ reinforced  _ somehow. Tonight, unwarded and alone, he knew it was going to be back to business as usual.

“Do your worst.” Was all he said instead, as he let himself drift off.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The apprentice dormitories - or, something rather like them, as it always was with the Fade. The bunks were haphazardly strewn about, some of their posts reaching to the ceiling, spindly and deformed.

Jowan sat down on a bunk, the texture of the blankets strangely quicksand-like, and waited.

“There you are, my love.” Lily’s voice, and underlying demonic echo, struck him right in the heart. He said nothing, looking intently at his own hands in his lap. “Everyone is at their lessons, we have the place to ourselves…” Jowan’s hands clenched into fists. He bit his lip. Drops of blood slowly descended, landing in the creases of his own fingers. A hand softly brushed his hair back from his forehead. “Darling, what’s wrong?” His hands shook. The voice continued. “I wanted to wait before, I know. But… I think I’m ready, if you are. We may never get another chance, if we can’t escape. I want to be with you.” The hand moved to trace the side of his face, sending a shiver down his spine that wasn’t entirely from dread.

_ How dare you. How dare you take her form, her voice, how dare you touch me with hands you pretend are hers - _

Hands cupped his face and turned his head, forcefully. He saw Lily’s lovely face through bleary eyes. The telltale demonic shimmer was amplified when seen through tears. “I want our first time to be perfect, my love.” The demon pulled his face forward and kissed him, hard, his split lip stinging. He pulled his face from her hands, demonic claws raked against his skin. He glared as the demon licked his blood from her lips.

Seeing this  _ thing  _ use the image of Lily’s face and body to shiver in pleasure at the taste of blood was more than he could bear. Acid burned up in his throat and he shook with rage. “I don’t want anything you offer, demon! Leave me be!” He shouted.

“Don’t be ungrateful.” The demon said, an angry edge creeping into her voice. “You never got the chance to lie with your  _ lovely  _ Lily. You never saw what these chaste robes concealed, you never felt her bare skin on yours, in the heat of passion, slick with sweat and  _ desire _ . I can offer you this, a perfect night with your perfect love. I can give you everything she denied you. Over and over. Forever.”

“She couldn’t deny something I never asked her for. We knew it was too dangerous.” He said, words out of his mouth even as he realized it was only bait, she was trying to get a rise out of him any way she could - he’d be more likely to slip up even in anger if she couldn’t inspire lust. Jowan continued anyway, crossing his arms defensively. “I killed the last Desire demon, I can kill you too.”

“Darling,” the demon cooed, “you didn’t kill me. It takes an awful lot more than a couple of silly flame blasts to do that.” Desire laughed, and wrapped her arms around him as he tried to recoil from her embrace. Stroking his hair, the demon whispered into his ear. “I can promise you, I will never leave you, not ever.” It flicked its tongue over his earlobe and he finally pulled himself free, nearly retching as he stood up, wobbling on his feet.

“Well. I can see that this isn’t working.” She pouted. “Would it be better if I came to you as that templar _?  _ What was her na-” A blast of fire cut the demon’s musings short, singeing Lily’s image away, revealing the smirking, wickedly beautiful face of the violet-skinned monster beneath. “Touchy, aren’t we? Don’t like your childhood memories? I can make them  _ better _ ...” She purred, rising from the bed and hovering languidly in the air, running her hands slowly over her nearly naked body, lingering over her breasts. “I can be anything, any _ one _ …”

“No thanks.” Jowan said dryly, sending a buzzing arcane bolt straight to the center of her chest.

The demon sputtered and coughed, narrowing her eyes. “You little shit! I’ll kill you,  _ somniari  _ or no!” She growled and lunged forward with her claws out, catching his throat, breaking skin as he dodged clumsily. Red droplets spilled forth and hung in the air. He tried a blast of cold, Circle textbooks had called it Winter’s Grasp. Mana surged through him high and sharp, his fingertips feeling frostbitten as an icy blast flew from them. A layer of fine, feathery frost dusted the demon’s skin. She winced, and when she struck again with her other hand her movements were stiff, claws scraped at the air just in front of the bridge of his nose this time.  _ Too close. _

He felt the ominous thrumming in his veins, the rising dreadful inner rhythm of an entropy spell, as he made signs in the air that pulled a flowing, pulsing red stream of energy from his opponent to himself. He felt a surge of strength flow into him even as his mana ebbed, and the demon’s shoulders sagged. He was able to steady himself now, and his nausea had passed in the wake of adrenaline and stolen life force. He shot another arcane bolt at the her head, and it clipped the edge of one of the ornate horns rising from her forehead.  _ Where is lyrium when you need it? Or a staff - the spells would be stronger... _

Desire was damaged but still fighting, and her claws came for his belly next. He didn’t dodge quickly enough, blood burst forth, flowing freely - and then the pain blinded him. He was sure he’d been slashed right through.  _ If you die in the Fade… _ He held a hand to the gash and used everything he had left to try and heal it. He felt his mana glide toward the pain as soft, gentle notes that pulled and pressed, cloying and drawing in, but far too weak… the edges of the wound began to knit together, an intensely uncomfortable sensation even when being treated by a skilled healer. His own healing knowledge was purely theoretical, and his mana was too depleted to close the gap. The injury throbbed, gnarled and partially fused, but still seeping. 

As the searing pain in his gut barely lessened, a hollow, hungry sensation grew within, as though his very soul was starved. _No mana. No other options, now._ _Do or die_ , _Maleficar_.

He focused on the pulsing wound under his hand, called to the power in his own blood. He saw red, felt the intoxicating rush jangle through his nerves, a cacophony of power. A dangerous gamble, pulling too much from himself could easily be suicide now.  _ But just enough, and you might make it out of this. _

Jowan first focused on an arcane shield - and a shaky ethereal bubble hummed to life around him. Imperfect, but functional - as Desire raked her claws through the air at him again and this time they grazed and glanced off the barrier. She cursed.

_ Good enough _ .  _ Now… _ He thought back to his lessons in the Circle, of a particularly nasty spell. The images clear in his mind, of the full page woodcut illustration: a gory splash of red ink on old parchment - and of the day they had him test the technique on a rat. How it had sickened him to watch it twitch and convulse, and then burst open with a final, tiny shriek.  _ It’ll have to be … bigger. _ Concentrating on the memory, he remembered the way the song of the spell rang discordant through him all those years ago. He put his hand out, touching the edge of the barrier, and from it a tiny ball of greenish light emerged as he pushed the memory out into the Fade, flying straight at the demon. It hit the side of her stomach and dissipated almost instantly.  _ So this is how you die, Jowan. How disappointing. _

But then it began. The demon’s face had been twisted in fury as she attacked, but now her eyes rolled back, her horned head drooped. Sickly green veins swelled under her smooth lavender skin, spreading over her torso and up her neck, pulsing with each dose of corruption the spell poured into her. She writhed in pain, black tears gathering in the corners of her eyes and spilling over - and Jowan almost felt a little sorry. It was an  _ ugly  _ way to die. She gasped and choked, twitching in the air, completely helpless.

The effect of Walking Bomb was much worse on a larger scale. A red smear, a faint smell of rot, and a fine spray of disintegrated rat over couple of square feet of tile in the Circle Laboratory had been quite disgusting enough. The demon’s demise was unbelievably gruesome in comparison. Her chest snapped wide open, sounding impossibly like cracking bone and ripping flesh. Twisted black riblike structures protruded from the edges of the growing wound. Strings of grey, slimy sinew stretched and tore, revealing a crackling deep red core of energy - as though a corrupted wraith was trapped within her. Viscous, inky ooze splattered over the barrier with a nauseating  _ squelch  _ as the rest of her body tore itself apart - Desire’s wraith-soul escaped her, shooting upward with a scream like steam from a boiling kettle.

“Oh. Maker, that’s… that’s… just revolting.” Jowan said as he dropped the barrier, the bits of demon that had clung to it splashing sloppily to the floor. “Ugh.”

A pile of lumpy, veiny, grey and purple slush was all that remained of her, aside from bits and pieces that clung to the wavering walls and rickety bedposts, and a smattering of black droplets over everything but a wobbly circle around Jowan’s feet. The escaped  _ spirit-thing _ was nowhere to be seen. “Seems like a bit of a misnomer.” He mused, “She didn’t walk at all.”


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for something completely different.  
> POV switch.

  
Tamlen and Aris stood in awe of an absolutely enormous mirror, on a raised platform in the center of the dark room. It was unlike anything either elf had ever seen before. Clearly ancient elven and _humming_ with magic, yet wrapped in gaudy human trappings that all looked like they’d been tacked on as an afterthought. Huge, blank-faced, round-eared statues stood ominously staring down from either side of it.  Aris realized he was panting, still catching his breath from the battle with the (utterly terrifying) spiked, bear-like... _creature_ just moments prior. Tamlen showed no such signs of fatigue, however, as he moved toward the mirror, transfixed. The foul stench of the bear’s corpse seemed to fill the ruins. The mirror reflected nothing, frame filled with fog and dancing light that made Aris dizzy when he tried to look into it.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Tamlen said. “I wonder what the writing says.”

“I’m sure the keeper can decipher it. That’s kinda her job.” Aris managed to say as he caught his breath, with an irritated edge in his voice. He wiped sweat from his brow, the back of his hand leaving a smear of blighted blood across his forehead.

“Maybe, but she’s not here to help us.” Tamlen replied dismissively. “Odd that it isn’t broken like everything else, especially with that bear lumbering around in here. I wonder what this writing is for?” he said, inching up the steps and ever closer to the mirror, reaching out a gloved hand toward its luminescent surface. The mirror rippled and shifted, and Aris’ stomach lurched. “Maybe this isn’t - hey, did you see that? I think something moved inside the mirror.”

“Get away from it, you _ idiot! _ ” Aris shot up the steps to try and pull his friend away from what was certainly the source of the ruins’ looming sense of death and evil. He didn’t care now if Tamlen thought he was being a stick in the mud, this was  _ not safe _ , possibly too dangerous even for Marethari to investigate. As he grasped Tamlen’s shoulders, the fine hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.  _ Not good _ .

“Hold on. I just want to know what it is. Don’t you see it? There is is again!” The mirror’s surface twisted again as Aris tried to pull him back, to no avail. Tamlen leaned further forward as if Aris wasn’t even there. “Can you feel that? I think it knows we’re here.”

“All the more reason to get the  _ fuck  _ out of here!” Aris shouted in his friend’s ear.

“I just need to take a closer look… it’s … showing me places. I can see… some kind of city… underground? And there’s a great blackness…” Tamlen’s body tensed, but his face was still mere inches from the mirror. “It … it saw me! Help! I can’t look away!” The mirror swirled with deep red clouds like blood in water, but Aris could not make out anything like Tamlen described. He panicked.

“I  _ told you _ to get away from it!” Aris shouted, pushing himself between Tamlen and the mirror, forcing Tamlen down the steps with a hard shove. The mirror and Tamlen’s eyes flashed blue in unison. Aris’ vision swam for a moment, he stumbled, catching himself on the mirror’s frame. The mirror itself had gone still and quiet, and the face of it was cold against his back. He blinked at a foggy image of Tamlen, lying motionless in a heap at the bottom of the steps, and shivered.  _ So... cold. Need… lie down. _ And then the world went black.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Wake up! Damn it, Aris!” Tamlen screamed.  _ Oh... Creators what have I done? Please, wake up. You can’t be… No, not  _ you  _ lethallin, you can’t be…  _

He had crawled back up the steps, Aris’ body was draped over his lap, clear grey eyes wide open and blank. Unblinking. The mirror was empty now.

_ He will not wake. He travels the Beyond.  _ A strange, lilting echo of a voice sent a chill down Tamlen’s spine as it seemed to whisper  _ through  _ him.

“What? Who said that?” The voice did not speak again. He wasn’t sure if he had heard it with his ears, or… in his head. “He’s not… No. I have to get him back to camp, the keeper will know what to do.” he said, looking down at Aris. His friend’s face looked hollow, dark circles had bloomed under his eyes… his chest did not rise or fall. Coppery-blonde tangles had fallen free of Aris’ ponytail and Tamlen brushed them out of his friend’s eyes with shaking hands. He felt queasy, chilled to the bone, and noticed that he was drenched in sweat.  _ Stop. Can’t waste time - get him home. Now. _

He carefully stood, and bent down to lift Aris, pulling him awkwardly over one shoulder, straining under the weight of carrying the stronger, taller hunter. He stumbled out of the room, half dragging Aris back out of the now silent ruins, tripping over the corpses of walking dead they had violently laid back to rest only a few hours before.

It felt like it took days before he finally reached the exit, a wide cave mouth with crumbling pillars to either side of it, opening out to the familiar forest that was now lit with the fading orange glow of sunset. He gently laid Aris down on the ground, unable to keep carrying him now as tremors wracked his exhausted body. He knelt, gasping and choking as his stomach heaved. His throat burned and nothing but bile came up.

Tamlen looked at  _ the body _ , a hand over his mouth to hold back a strangled sound that escaped his throat, as he let it finally sink in that his friend still did not blink or breathe. He reached out to gently close Aris’ empty eyes. “We should have taken that shem’s stupid carving to the keeper and let her decide. You were right. I was a fool not to listen.” He shook his head, his mind foggy with what felt like a fever creeping over him, but he knew that even in his right mind he could never find any words that could mend his unforgivable crime. “It should have been me.” he whispered. “But I will carry you home, lethallin.”


	6. 6

For two days Jowan walked the road to Denerim, gaining speed as health slowly returned to him. His wound seeped into the cloth of his shirt only occasionally now, and the pain lessened to a dull ache.

It seemed odd that the gash had even manifested in the waking world at all, and he wondered why he had not read about demon-inflicted wounds in his studies. Plenty of people hurt in the Fade returned to their bodies sick, mad, possessed… or not at all. But he remembered no stories of actual injuries appearing on their bodies. Regardless of the mystery, though, a mere scar was a much more pleasant than the alternatives.

For two nights he had even slept rather soundly, seeking refuge in the Fade by willing himself to return to the Desire demon’s parody of the apprentice quarters. He’d spent the first night burning away the worst of the mess, then barricading the demon’s domain against intruders - using his magic to melt and tangle the “wood” of bedposts and chairs together, wrapping and twisting them into gnarled structures that blocked the open doorways, and straining to pull fragments of ceiling and wall back into place when they tried to drift. It was a lot of effort, to remain in a place he truly never wished to see again. But this place was empty, its mistress dead or at least weakened. If he could remain here, and fortify the structure, he could avoid confrontation with other demons. It was the most practical plan.

So, nights in the Fade were spent warping and waiting, checking and re-checking, jumping at the slightest sound. But in daylight hours, he began to feel stronger. On the afternoon of the third day, he made another attempt at healing the gash across his gut, which thankfully appeared to not be nearly as deep as it had first felt. Concealed by a copse of trees just off the road, having seen no other travelers for a few hours, he lifted his shirt to inspect the malformed scar. The wound ran diagonally from just above his navel to the line of his pelvis on the left side. He drew on his new experience of knitting Fade-constructs together, pressing his hand to the crusted surface. Feeling out the edges of the scar within, feeling the gentle mana-song grow through him again, he willed the cracks to pull closed. He could feel it as bits of muscle and tendon folded together like closing petals and then melded, mana flowing through re-attached vessels, and it felt closer to…  _ right _ , this time. Not exactly pleasant, but not nearly so uncomfortable as his first try. He was lucky that he’d had no signs of infection or fever, after letting it go for so long.

A small smile graced his lips as he looked at the clean white stripe that now crossed his belly where the itchy scabs had been, watching it shimmer with residual mana for a fraction of a second. “I… I did it!” he said, and his smile widened to a full grin at the little victory.

The sound of rustling leaves and a twig snapping under someone’s foot killed the moment instantly. Jowan spun around to face the sudden intrusion.  _ The Warden? The one who was there when… Duncan. His name was Duncan. _

“I mean you no harm.” Duncan said calmly as he came forward from behind a tree, hands raised and open, underlining his statement. “Please, do not run. I wish to speak with you.”

Jowan felt an undercurrent of mana rushing through his body as his adrenaline surged. He held his hands out in a defensive gesture, ready to aim a blast of fire if he had to. “What do you want?” He asked, voice trembling.  _ Of course you’d be caught now, things were going  _ far  _ too well. _

“Just to talk. You have my word that I have not led the templars to you.” Duncan moved slowly and deliberately toward a nearby fallen log, and then sat down on it. He kept his hands in view and his weapons sheathed. “If you choose to run, I will not waste time pursuing you further. But I think you may be interested in my offer.”

Jowan allowed himself to relax slightly, lowering his hands. “Are you going to ask me to become a Grey Warden? Because if I’m the type you lot are looking to recruit, things are either far worse than they seem, or the Wardens’ standards are  _ astoundingly  _ low.”

Duncan gave a small, wry laugh and motioned to the other side of the fallen log, for Jowan to take a seat. After a pause, Jowan decided to lean his back against a tree, where he could more easily keep an eye on the other man. Duncan continued, “Things are definitely worse than they seem. But also the Wardens are also not so quick to condemn as other organizations. In order to have arguments about morality, first we must survive. I seek recruits with skill, who are willing to fight.  _ How  _ one kills darkspawn is not a concern, only that it is done, preferably before the Blight consumes all of Ferelden.”

Jowan crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow. “That’s  _ admirably  _ practical, but... I don’t know why you would seek me out, of all people. I am quite probably the least skilled apprentice Kinloch Hold had ever seen. Irving feared I would not pass my Harrowing and  _ approved  _ the Rite of Tranquility. My only friend is dead, my… former betrothed is in prison, and that’s all  _ my  _ fault. And then there’s the whole maleficar… thing. Look, I want to help people, I want to do  _ something  _ to make things right. But I’m not exactly  _ hero  _ material.”

“I assure you, this is an offer that I  _ never  _ make lightly. Yes, the situation is dire, and it is true that the army assembling at Ostagar will need all the help it can get. These circumstances do not diminish the fact that I would not ask you join us if I did not think you were up to the task.”

Jowan gaped at him. Duncan pressed on, “You, with the help of your friends, orchestrated a successful escape - casualties aside - from a tower guarded by a small army of people whose entire purpose is dedicated to stopping  _ exactly that _ . You inspired such loyalty in your friend that she risked everything to help. As a mage, you have talents that would be of great use in the war ahead of us. I should hope you choose to use them.”

The Grey Warden seemed to be waiting for a response. Jowan, however, was thinking about Ostagar. Of young soldier Carver, and his family who would miss him.  _ If I could be there, if I could help somehow? _

“You know,” he said after a moment, “when you put it that way… it seems almost plausible. Sorry,” he added hastily, “for being so… hostile.”

“As I said, I understand. The last time you saw me was likely not a time you wish to think of again.” In reply, Jowan could only nod. “I will not lie to you, the life of a Grey Warden has many risks. But we alone can defeat the Blight.”

_ If the Blight takes everything, there’d be no Mages’ Collective to join anyway, would there? Hard to argue with that.  _ “It’s no riskier than being an escaped maleficar or assisting other illegal mages, I suppose, right?” Jowan said with a small sigh. “It would be too cowardly not to try. Even for me, I suppose.”

Duncan smiled. “Good. Before we head to Ostagar, however, I have another recruitment opportunity I must see to. There’s a Dalish clan camped not far from here.” Duncan produced a worn map from his pack and spread it out over a patch of grass. He indicated a vague area not far from the road Jowan had been traveling. “Last seen around this area, or so I have heard.”

“I’ve always been curious about the Dalish. Vida used to talk about running away to join a clan.” He thought of how her face would light up at the thought, the breathless way she spoke about being  _ free _ . She had deserved such a life. He hoped that, wherever she was now, she was happier.

“I am sorry, about your friend. I did not think the templars would be so quick to kill. The situation in the Circle is far more tense than I had suspected. It is… disturbing.” Duncan told him, genuine remorse in his eyes.

“You’ve no reason to be sorry.” Jowan replied. “It was my stupid plan that got her killed.”

“As I recall, your friend tried to strike that templar down with lightning, without any cue from you. It is a shame, but it is also not entirely your fault.”

Jowan silently looked at his shoes, at a loss for words - or at least for ones he could have spoken aloud.  _ I begged Lily to help, and together we plead with Vida. Had I just accepted my fate, or better yet had Lily never…   _ he sighed.  _ Pointless _ .

They set out soon after that, over fields of grass dotted with scrawny trees, traveling toward a thin dark green line on the horizon, the edge of the Brecilian Forest.


	7. 7

Light, and blurred motion.

A face, unfamiliar, fading in and out. _Shem_ . _Afraid._

“Can you heal his wounds?”

“I … I can try.”

Spinning, washing away, and darkness again.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Tamlen woke slowly, bright late afternoon sunlight assaulting his eyes as he cracked them open. He groaned.

“Duncan, he’s awake.” _One of the voices from before. Wavering and worried._

“Good.” _The other voice, certain and stoic._

Tamlen felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned his head to find a bearded shem leaning over him. “How are you feeling?” The man asked, his was the stoic voice.

“Awful. Who are you? What happened?” Tamlen snapped, irritated and groggy. He sat up, and a dull ache in his head intensified with the motion. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “Ugh.”

“I am Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.” The bearded shem said. “I’m looking for the Sabrae clan, I have urgent business with keeper Marethari. We found you here yesterday, along with the body of another elf. Do you not remember what happened to you?”

“Aris.” Tamlen said, covering his face with his hands, the previous day’s events flooding back to him. He reluctantly slid his hands down and looked over them to where he had laid _the body_. Mercifully, it seemed that one of the shemlen had wrapped Aris in a white linen sheet.

Jowan, kneeling by a nearby campfire and poking at it aimlessly with a twig, looked up to follow the elf’s gaze. “I… I’m sorry, I thought it might be easier to carry him if…” he trailed off, uncertain.

“Thank you.” Tamlen said, turning to look at the worry-voiced shem. _The face that faded in and out of the darkness earlier, and not some creepy fever dream after all. Joy._ “Forgive me, I am unaccustomed to kindness from… your people.” He looked back to Duncan, “My friend and I were exploring the ruins. There were walking corpses within it, and strange mirror. And a demonic beast. The mirror was magic - it drew me in. Aris pushed me aside and… I don’t know if it was a wound from fighting, or if the mirror-magic killed him. I carried him out. That’s all I remember.”

Duncan nodded thoughtfully, brow furrowed. “You are of clan Sabrae, aren’t you?” he said, studying the cave entrance.

“Yes.” Came Tamlen’s curt reply. In spite of the humans’ apparent intent to help, he was not eager to share information about the clan.

“We can help you.” Duncan said, standing and reaching a hand down to pull Tamlen up. Even with assistance, it took the elf a lot more effort to stand than he had thought it would. His limbs moved sluggishly and seemed so very _heavy_. “If you can lead us to your clan, I will carry your friend. You are very sick, and though Jowan’s healing magic has helped, Marethari’s old magics will stave off the worst symptoms much more effectively.” When Tamlen declined to answer, Duncan added, “We have no intention of harming you clan, and you are not well enough to carry your friend alone. Let us help.”

Tamlen frowned, but could not argue. “I… will lead you there,” he began, but even as he said it he almost lost his balance just trying to remain standing. He leaned on one of the pillars by the cave mouth. The Warden was right, he would never make it to camp on his own, especially carrying Aris. “It is not far from here. A day’s walk. The clan will be grateful to you, for returning him.” He hated the idea of letting a _shem_ carry his friend home, but it was better this than not bring him back at all. _Yes, better this, than have Aris’ body be among the walking dead should the evil in this place wake again._

 

~ ~ ~

 

Rest was not an easy thing to find, though they had set up camp some distance from the ruins that night.

Duncan dreamed of hordes of genlocks and hurlocks beneath a monstrous corrupted Old God, and eventually woke a mere few hours later, heartbeat pounding. It was a recurring nightmare that had been building for months, but its significance could not yet be fully understood by present company, and so he said nothing of it.

Jowan had volunteered to keep watch for a while, dreading the very concept of sleep as always. He stared into the fire, knees to his chest and back against a fallen log, trying to conjure up anything but terror at the thought of the road ahead.

Tamlen tossed and turned fitfully, pained expression flickering in the light of the fire as he battled something internally that had no shape or name, but taunted him in a cold, eerie voice.

The Warden rose and sat down by the fire. “Get some rest.” He told Jowan in a hushed voice, indicating the bedroll he’d just left vacant.

“Thank you.” Jowan said blandly. _You can just lie still for a few hours, keep your eyes closed and wait for dawn. Just like old times._ He tried to ignore all the telltale signs of a thin, wispy veil - they way he itched just _under_ his skin, the way the wind whispered words he couldn’t ever quite catch. The way the very air itself seemed splintered and fragile. _Long night ahead,_ he thought.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Oh.” Jowan said, upon realizing he’d fallen asleep after all. “Shit.”

The mouth of the cave stood open before him. “Should go back to the dormitory-fort, rather than poke around in creepy ruins,” he told himself. “It all looks so… _solid_ , for the Fade, though. Weird.” And of course that was where curiosity got the better of him. He took a tentative step forward, and then a few more, expecting to find crumbling stone and cobwebs.

But the unbroken tiles beneath his feet positively glimmered, so bright and untouched that they might have been carved yesterday. The pillars were unbroken, and detailed with silver designs. The walls were covered with murals, thousands of tiny chips of stone glinted by torchlight, set in intricate patterns and sweeping landscapes. And … several portraits of what appeared to be the same elven man, with enormous stormheart eyes and a wild cascade of onyx hair. “Huh.” he said, pulling his eyes away to continue exploring.

He nearly screamed a split second later as a translucent green figure ghosted past him. _What - what is that? It’s not a demon, is it?_

The spirit ( _it must be a spirit, of some kind_ ) drifted down the hall and around a corner with speed and purpose, completely ignoring him. It had a human shape, and was draped in transparent green robes in a style that reminded him of illustrations in books on ancient Tevinter. _How curious._ He followed, timid and several steps behind, peering carefully into grand room at the end of the corridor, seeing within it an impossibly large mirror on a raised platform at one end. Many more of the strange green ghost-people were flitting about in a flurry of activity, preparing for something. A few were kneeling, tracing complicated runic designs on the floor, several went through the motions of lighting candles and braziers. One serious, imposing green figure stood glowering from the top of the steps. None of the spirits seemed to take any notice of Jowan, but he kept his awkward, stooped stance, hanging half through the doorway he clung to, ready to retreat - _just in case_.

“Aferte mea oblationis.” The spirit by the mirror boomed, and while Jowan hadn’t the faintest clue what he’d said, it was obviously an order. Two spirits immediately left their work lighting candles that weren’t really there, and moved to where another ghost stood against the wall. The third spirit was dragged across the room and up the stairs, head bowed and hands bound. The hairs on Jowan’s neck stood up. Every spirit was now still, waiting.

He wished he could have been surprised when the master spirit slashed the slave’s throat, but he could only sadly shake his head as a spray of glassy green droplets splattered over the mirror and the dying slave fell forward with only a small gasp. The designs on the floor hummed to life, glowing and twisting. The mirror flashed but the effect was fleeting.

Another spirit had been catching blood in a bowl, kneeling by the slave who now lacked the strength to stand, who quietly bled out while crouched on all fours and eventually collapsed.

“What is this madness? Why show me this?” A man’s voice shouted from a shadowed corner, with an accent that nagged at Jowan’s memory. Dalish. The spirits ignored the cry, and Jowan peered at the spot it had come from, but couldn’t see the speaker.

“Lusacan! Exaudi orationem mea, et iudicabis meam digna hostia, si tibe placet. Ut discamus Arlathan hoc recludet mysterium.” The master spirit thundered, taking the bowl from the collector-servant, dipping a hand into the blood, and painting dripping sigils upon the mirror with it. The glass shifted and shimmered, Jowan held his breath - and had it forcibly knocked out of him when someone collided with him as they tried to run through the door.

“... Tamlen?” He said, standing up and holding out a hand to help the elf.

“What are _you_ doing here?” They said in unison. The illusion now destroyed, the dream washed away as both men woke up.

“How…?”

Jowan shrugged. “I have no idea.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Duncan entered the cave to destroy the mirror that morning. Two confused accounts of one dream, a recent history of walking dead and one blight-ridden bear - all signs pointed to the object being cursed, blighted, or possessed. No one protested his decision, and both Jowan and Tamlen seemed eager to leave the evil place far behind them.

The terrain of the forest made their progress painfully slow, and much to his annoyance, Tamlen had to lean on Jowan the whole way. He was still too unsteady on his own feet to manage picking his way through tangled roots and brambles alone. The human did not seem to mind, and in fact seemed eager to be of help - which only aggravated Tamlen more. It wasn’t _right_ that he had to rely on shemlen, to shoulder his burden and carry him home. Or perhaps in a way, it was… perhaps this was a shame his recklessness had earned.

The three traveled without much in the way of smalltalk, neither elf nor mage eager to talk about their eerie dream. They stopped for breaks often, though. When Tamlen would succumb to the fever again and his arm over Jowan’s shoulder would begin to slip, the mage would call out to the Warden to wait as he held a hand over Tamlen’s forehead and concentrated with closed eyes. After a moment, each time, Tamlen felt a cool, peaceful aura drift over him, driving the nausea and the ache back for a while.

“I’m sorry.” The mage must have said it a hundred times, often followed with “I’m new to healing,” or “it’s never been my strong suit.” Tamlen grew tired of reassuring him after the first few spells, and eventually only nodded in response, while pointing the way forward.

As they drew near to the camp, the sound of a bird call drifted over them. _An alarm. The hunters._ Tamlen whistled a reply, and one Dalish hunter dropped down from a branch above with the fluid grace of a bird of prey. Jowan nearly jumped out of his skin, almost upsetting Tamlen’s shaky balance. Duncan was, as always, unruffled, moving one hand to a dagger hilt almost casually.

The hunter gave the humans an appraising look, then his gaze settled on Tamlen, eyes wide. “Lethallin, what has happened? Where is Aris?”

Tamlen lowered his eyes, unable to look at Junar as he said, “Aris is dead. I am to blame. He died saving my life, after I dragged him with me into danger. These shemlen found me and helped me to bring our brother home. One is a Grey Warden and claims to have business with the keeper.” He felt Jowan shift awkwardly under his arm. Tamlen had stated the facts in a monotone, not wishing to give even the slightest impression that he was hoping for sympathy, no doubt the shem was put off by the facts of the matter.

Junar waited a beat before he spoke, expression grim. “I… will take you to the keeper,” was all he said. He turned and led them through the tangled trees and into the camp.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Jowan fidgeted while they waited, perched on a rough-hewn wooden bench by the bonfire in the camp’s central gathering place, and picking at a loose thread at the end of one sleeve. The hem came apart as he pulled, leaving a frayed edge. He sighed, then turned to Duncan, who stood warming his hands by the fire. “You need recruits…” he said, letting the sentence trail off, not sure how to continue it.

“Yes, the threat is dire, we will need all the Wardens we can gather, with no time to send for reinforcements from Orlais.” Duncan replied quietly, acutely aware of all the Dalish wandering about the camp, pretending to be about their usual business as they watched the humans and listened.

“... You said Tamlen has been infected, that his fever is from the darkspawn taint - do the Wardens… might they be able to cure him? You’re supposed to know more about this Blight rubbish than anyone-” Duncan raised a hand, cutting Jowan off.  
“There is a cure -” Duncan began.

“Then can we recruit him?” Jowan blurted out, “Before they - before the keeper…”

“It is my intention to recruit the young hunter, yes. It’s the only thing that might save his life, and given how long he survived the taint without treatment, he shows a strength of will that would be ideal in a Warden. However, I must consult with the keeper - it may be necessary to conscript him if she does not wish to let him leave. Or if Tamlen refuses.”

“Do you know much about the keeper?”

“A little. From her reputation among other clans I have met with, I can guess that she will be far less harsh on Tamlen than he thinks he deserves.”

“That’s true,” A young woman’s voice interrupted, light and airy with a distinctly Dalish lilt, “she’s mostly just glad he came back safe. What happened to Aris… We will all miss him, very much. And a few will blame Tamlen. But it could have been two terrible losses and it wasn’t… so… I mean, he’ll certainly face consequences, probably won’t be a hunter anymore, at least not  for a while, but it’s not as if he’ll be cast out. It was an accident. A dreadful mistake.”

The voice belonged to a wide eyed elven girl with short dark hair, who had seated herself on one of the nearby log benches. The humans stared at her, and she nervously pulled at one of the little braids in her hair. “Sorry. I’m Merrill, the keeper’s apprentice. I should have introduced myself properly. The keeper sent me to tell you she is ready to speak with the Grey Warden.” She looked nervously between the two men, not knowing which of them was the one she’d been sent for.

Duncan gave a polite nod, “I will speak with her at once, thank you.” he said, and with that he set off in the direction of the keeper’s aravel.

Merrill focused her attention on Jowan, then, studying him with the curious eyes of someone who had no idea that direct staring makes some people uncomfortable. “So, if he’s the Warden, you must be the healer. Tamlen said you helped keep the fever at bay.”

“I wouldn’t really call myself a ‘healer’ - I’m not even very good at any particular school of magic. I only managed my first decent healing spell a few days before finding your friend.” Jowan studied the ground, his cheeks slightly pink.

“Well, he’s very lucky that you were there, regardless of what either of you seem to think. He wouldn’t have made it back without you.” She paused for a moment, with her gaze turned to the fire. “I, myself, am especially grateful to you, for keeping him alive. I don’t think anyone else here will say it - it’s too much for them, to compliment a _shem_ , and the situation is… complicated. But, he’s a dear friend of mine, and I... I wanted to thank you properly.” At her words, the color in Jowan’s cheeks bloomed from pink to red. “I’m sorry! I’ve embarrassed you - or offended, perhaps? I apologize, I don’t have any experience talking with humans.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry, I just… I don’t feel like I did anything that anyone else in my place wouldn’t have done? Really, I didn’t do anything that remarkable at all. And I think you may not be pleased to hear that Tamlen may have to leave the clan again, to join the Grey Wardens himself, if he is to have any hope of surviving his illness.” Jowan folded his hands in his lap.

“I know.” She nodded, as Jowan looked up in surprise. “I admit, I eavesdropped for a little while as you and the Warden were talking. If it’s Tamlen’s best chance, or his only chance, I hope he takes it. And - well, I think it would be better for him to be away for a while. Not wallowing in guilt, doing something that can help - being away from the people here who will need time to heal, it will likely be better for the everyone, as much as I may not be fond of the idea. Sorry, I’m rambling…”

“It’s quite alright, I understand what you mean. I’m a Warden recruit, myself. In, um, rather similar circumstances, sort of.” He pulled another thread from the edge of his sleeve. “Honestly I’m just surprised you’re speaking to me at all. The rest of your clan seems to have had their arrows trained on us since we set foot here. Not that they don’t have reason to be wary. It’s just… nice to…” He cleared his throat, stopping where the sentence had seemed to get away from him. “Thank you,” he said instead. “for being kind. For not rushing to judgement.” He gave her a small smile.

“Oh, I couldn’t just leave you sitting here alone, looking as downtrodden as you were. Outsider or no, you did something selfless, and you deserve thanks. You look _really_ uncomfortable every time I say it though, so I’ll stop.” She paused, attempting to find a way to change topics tactfully, but finding none, she gave up and charged ahead. “Where were those ruins located, exactly? I know the Warden smashed the mirror - but there is so much more there that could be discovered about Elvhen history.”

The way her eyes lit up when she spoke of lost lore, Jowan couldn’t even try to refuse her. It was the same look Vida always had when she told him legends about the Dalish. And the history of the place was not his to withhold. “If you investigate the cave, don’t - do _not_ under any circumstances - do so alone. Take the keeper. Take the whole clan, armed to the teeth. But do not go alone. _Please_.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Very well.” Duncan said, expression grim. “You leave me no choice. I invoke the Right of Conscription.”

“And I witness and acknowledge your invocation, Duncan of the Grey Wardens.” Marethari added, brows knitted in worry, but voice certain.

“Very well.” Tamlen spat the words out. “I intended to face the justice of the clan but I am shown only pity. In lieu of that, I deserve to wither away. But I am to have no say in this. Lead me off to death in battle, then. If I can take some darkspawn out with me then perhaps I am at least of some use to the world.”

“You judge yourself too harshly, da’len.” Marethari reached out to touch Tamlen’s shoulder, but he pulled away. “It is not your fault. Any one of us could have been drawn in by the magic in that evil place.”

“The best of us lies dead, and I am the reason for it. If anything I am being far too kind to myself.”

“I hate to send you away, especially in such a state, I can only hope in time you will see that your clan loves you. Know that we forgive you and are honored by your sacrifice. This is your duty, and your salvation. But never forget that you are of clan Sabrae. That you are _Dalish_ . Let your clan embrace you one last time, before you go.” Her voice was breaking with affection and sorrow. He hated it, hated _her_ in this moment. _Why was she not furious?_

“I am ready to leave _now_.” Tamlen said to Duncan.


	8. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another POV switch - Shianni.  
> Content Warning: Non-Con - chapter opens with the canon events of the Tabris origin as they apply to Shianni.

Shianni loved weddings. She thought of what that day’s wedding could have been - instead of her torn dress, instead of cruel hands that hit and hurt and pushed in places, scraping and scarring.

She thought of her cousins and their pretty brides in all their fancy finery, instead of the panting in her ear and the bruise blooming on her cheekbone and the bile in the back of her throat and the sounds from the other men in the room - no. _No._

No, she wasn’t here and she hadn’t given in. She wasn’t letting this happen. The Chantry sister was saying lovely things about the Maker’s love and Falon was looking at Nesiara like he’d treasure her and Valora was smiling sweetly up at Soris. The sun shone and everyone sang songs and drank wine, celebrating how love would come to grow between them all.

She thought of uncle Cyrion looking so proud at his son, and not of how her kicking and screaming had had no effect, how one unarmed elf could not stop three men from taking what they wanted… No, rather she thought of how Falon and Nesiara’s house would look, as she kept her teary eyes pressed closed. They would have mismatched furniture given as wedding gifts, and the walls would be decorated with things Nesiara crafted and there would always be flowers in a vase on the table and something cooking on the fire, and Shianni would visit them and Falon would tease her about settling down someday, and he would look at his wife in awe and she would look back with affection and the little cottage would be filled with light and love. Soris and Valora would be awkward at first but their home would be no less perfect. As she willed herself away into these dreams, she did not hear the screaming in the hall, nor the crash of the door being kicked down, but suddenly she was thrown to the floor, and reality crashed back to her as she opened her eyes.

Shianni was afraid to look up at first, afraid to even breathe too loudly, lest the Arl’s son come back for more - but after a moment she steeled herself and carefully took a peek. And her heart leapt as she saw Falon ( _Oh, thank the Maker!_ ), standing in the doorway covered in blood - from the looks of it mostly his own. He had a broken crossbow in one hand, an arrow sticking out of the other shoulder, a nasty gash on his right cheek and a seeping wound on the side of his torso. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a gasp.

“My, my. What have we here?” Vaughan said, straightening his loud silk shirt.

“Oh, me? I’m just here to pick up my friends.” Falon said, mask of forced bravado cracking as he winced.

“Don’t worry, we’ll make quick work of him.” One of Vaughan’s noble friends piped up.

“Quiet, you idiot! He’s covered in enough blood to fill a tub. Do you know what that means?”

“It means I’m not here to play wicked grace, that’s for fucking sure.” Falon dropped the damaged weapon he carried and pulled a longsword from a sheath on his back.

“Alright, let’s not be too hasty here. Surely we can talk this over…” Vaughan said, hands raised.

“This should be good.”

Shianni noted that all eyes were on the Arl’s son as he spoke, saying something about skill and killing, she wasn’t really listening because she was waiting for her moment. Vaughan had turned around but seemed to be speaking into the air, thinking aloud, ignoring her completely. He turned back to Falon with a threat, “Your pigsty of an alienage will be burned to the ground.” Quietly, gingerly, she shifted her battered body into a crawling position and moved behind Vaughan’s two friends. From there she looked for a weapon, anything, that she could take them out with while Vaughan tried to weasel his way out of being gutted. The slackjawed lackeys kept their eyes on their leader just long enough for Shianni to spot a half-full wine bottle sitting on a nearby table. _Where’s the bitch that bottled me,_ he had said. Well now she’d be _quite happy_ to do it again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” One of Vaughan’s buddies asked, suddenly noticing she’d moved.

Thinking quickly, she grabbed the bottle and pried the cork from the top. “I was thirsty.” She said, and took a long drink.

“Drink up, little rabbit. The party’s just getting started. I’ll make a deal with your little friend here and then we can get back to the _festivities_.” Vaughan said with a sly grin, as his friends guffawed. He turned back to Falon, and said “Now, the alternative. You turn and walk away, with forty sovereigns added to your purse. You take that money and leave Denerim tonight. No repercussions, and you can go wherever you like.”

Falon lowered his sword ever so slightly, and Shianni’s heart sank. She knew why he considered it. The others in the Alienage, they wouldn’t deserve the wrath that would come down upon them if he killed the Arl’s son. But by now, she was certain that Vaughan would punish the elves regardless. He never needed a reason.

Falon did not answer with words, lowering his sword to his side. Shianni drained the last of the wine, holding the bottle in a white-knuckled grip.

“Then we have a deal?” Vaughan said, a note of genuine surprise in his voice. “Glad to see your priorities are -” he was interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. “Wha-” Shianni slammed the broken bottle into his face as he turned toward the sound, cutting seeping red slashes across his cheek.

She hit him over and over again, chipped a front tooth, tore his upper lip wide open, he had raised his hands too late to stop her assault. She kept _bottling_ him until the glass was smashed to shards that she buried in his face with her bare, bloodied fists. He fell over unconscious and toppled her with him, but she couldn’t stop. She grabbed his oily hair and beat his skull against the stone floor, and some unknown darkness within her delighted in the crack of splintering bone... but someone was dragging her away and she _wasn’t done. He would never be dead enough._

“Shianni! Shianni stop! He’s dead, they’re all dead! We need to get out of here!” Falon’s voice, and she looked at him, a new cut down the side of his face and his hair spilling free from his braid, his eyes searching hers for any sign of comprehension.

She looked down at her bruised hands, dazed, slowly becoming aware that they ached horribly. Red up past her wrists and glass chips in the knuckles. “So much blood…”

The weight of what she had done hit her then, blind rage giving way to cold, queasy dread. She looked around the room, at the bodies of the two nobles Falon had killed, and the crumpled, messy heap that had been Vaughan Kendalls, all of them lying in growing red pools. “It’s everywhere. What have I done?”

“We need to leave, now. We need to warn the others. A storm is coming, we just brought it down on them.”

Shianni stood. “I’ll take the blame, I killed him.”

“We will talk about that when we get home. Valendrian will know what to do.” Falon said, but he didn’t sound sure. “Where are the others?”

“They killed Nola. Cut her down. I… I’ll lead you to the others.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

“Where did you even get weapons?” Shianni asked her cousin as they walked, skirting through back alleys back to the Alienage.

“Some weird human, claiming to be sent by a friend of Valendrian. He said he was a Grey Warden, looking for recruits. When Vaughan took you all, everyone started screaming at each other in the square. Soris and I insisted that we had to do something. The Warden lent us his sword, and I found the crossbow on one of the guards we killed. Soris…” He trailed off.

“...He didn’t make it.” Shianni said, voice hushed and hollow.

Falon didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to. Shianni reached out for Valora, and the woman took her hand, expression numb. What could be said, to a woman who’d traveled all this way, only to be kidnapped and have her seemingly ungrateful fiance die trying to save her? ‘ _Welcome to Denerim,’ that’s what you say._

“It was very brave, what you and Soris did, coming to rescue us.” Nesiara said quietly.

“Brave but _stupid_ ,” Salli spat. “If we had just … complied - it would be different. The whole Alienage will suffer now.”

They had reached the gate. Valendrian was there waiting, along with a tall, blonde, very uncomfortable looking human in splint mail.

“You have returned. Where is Soris? Where is Tormey’s daughter, Nola?”

“Nola didn’t make it. She resisted and… they _killed_ her.” Valora cried.

“Soris, as well. He was struck down in the castle, I am sorry, Hahren.” Falon said.

“I see. Would the rest of you ladies please take Shianni home? She needs rest.”

Shianni stayed firmly planted as Valora put an arm around her shoulder to try and lead her home. “Vaughan is dead. I killed him.”

“The garrison will be here any minute, then....” The human finally spoke, appearing to be lost in thought, his brow furrowed.

“We may need to leave the city, let this all… blow over.” Falon suggested.

“Then they’ll burn the Alienage to the ground when they can’t find us.” Shianni countered. “If I take the blame, they have their target, and they don’t kill everyone.”

“The guards are here!” A young man shouted, and sure enough his words were followed by the sound of boots crunching on the stone steps inside the gate.

The human leaned over and whispered something in Valendrian’s ear. The elder looked grim, but nodded.

“Don’t panic.” Valendrian said. “Let’s see what comes of this.”

A company of five men in full plate marched toward them, their leader shouting, “I seek Valendrian, elder and administrator of the Alienage!”

“Here, Captain. I take it you have come in response to today’s disruption?” Valendrian’s tone was carefully nonchalant.

“Don’t play ignorant with me, elder. You will not prevent justice from being done.” The guard captain replied. “The Arl’s son lies dead in a river of blood that runs through the entire palace! I need names, and I need them now!”

Shianni stepped forward. “It was my doing. I killed them all.”

“You expect me to believe one woman did all of that?” The Captain asked, incredulous.

“I acted alone.” Shianni replied.

“You save many by coming forward.” He said, eyeing her bloody clothes, bruises, and scrapes, deciding it was evidence enough. “I don’t envy your fate, but I applaud your courage.” He turned and addressed the crowd of elves that had now gathered by the gate. “This elf will wait in the dungeon until the Arl returns. The rest of you, back to your houses!”

“Wait - ser - uh, Captain.” The blonde human said, stepping forward. He looked at Shianni like he wanted to ask her something, but then he dropped his gaze, and turned back to the guardsman.

“What is it, Grey Warden? The situation is well under control, as you can see.”

“Right. I do see that. But, I’m going to invoke the Right of Conscription. I, uh, hereby remove this woman into… my custody.” _That was how Duncan said to say it, right? I hope this works._

“Son of a tied down - very well, Grey Warden. I cannot challenge your rights, but I’ll ask one thing: Get this elf out of the city. Today.”

“Absolutely. Will do.”

The Captain groaned. “I need to get my men on the streets before this news hits. Move out!” He bellowed to his company, and they marched out of the Alienage.

“I’m sorry,” The Warden said to Shianni. “I would have preferred to ask you, rather than conscripting you. But better this than wasting away in a dungeon, right? We should leave, very soon, before the Guard Captain sends someone back ‘round to check. I’m Alistair, by the way.”

She stared, confused. “Can I...  have a moment… I...” She trailed off, hand on her forehead.

“Yes, of course. We can leave for Ostagar when you’re ready.” Alistair said, adjusting one of the shoulder straps of his armor as he spoke. “I’ll just… be over there. By the gate.”

 

~ ~ ~

 

Shianni sat on the edge of her cousin’s bunk, she’d been too tired and broken to climb the rickety wood-and-rope ladder to her own. She stared at a meager pile of her belongings on the floor, willing herself to move, to collect her things and head for the door. Nothing happened.

A tentative knock on the door startled her. “Yes?” She called out.

The door creaked open to reveal her uncle Cyrion. “You’ve been in here for quite a while now, the Warden is here, and nervous about leaving before sundown. I thought I might see if you needed any help, perhaps?”

“I’m almost all packed up.” She said. “I’m just not ready to actually _leave_.”

Cyrion looked at the pile in the middle of the floor: a couple of changes of clothes, a battered journal, a small jewelry box, and perched on top of the pile was a straw-stuffed Mabari hound, threadbare and missing an eye. “I see you still have Dale. I’m glad he’ll be there for you.” He said with a sad smile, picking up the toy and he sitting down next to Shianni.

“Well,” she began. “I’m going on an adventure, so of course I have to have my trusty Mabari at my side.” Her mouth smiled, but her eyes looked tired and hollow. Cyrion gently wrapped his arm around his niece’s shoulders.

Shianni leaned to rest her head on his shoulder. They sat like this for a long time, in silence, before Cyrion finally found words.

“The sun will be setting soon. I don’t want to tell you to go, but I certainly prefer you being free, over the alternative. Things will escalate when the guards return, even more so if you don’t keep the Warden’s promise.”

Shianni sighed as she gathered up her sad little pile of belongings into a simple rucksack. Silence dragged on - she ought to say something, probably. Nothing came to mind. Unraveled to unreality, it all was. An ache so intense, and yet so distant she could only reach an echo of it. A wound that was fresh and bleeding but already strangely numb.

Every passing moment a new layer of absurdity.

_Here I go leaving home forever with a strange human and a burlap mabari to join an obscure warrior cult because I just murdered the bastard who - who… No. I’ll wake up from this. Any minute. With a strange sinking sensation at dream-bits half remembered that fade as I try to pin them down, and then a minute after that this nightmare will be all washed away…_

Cyrion interrupted her thoughts, “I’d ask if you’re alright, but …”

“But you know I’m not.”

He stood, and pulled her into a hug. “You will be, though.” He told her, pulling back to look her in the eyes. “Not for a while, and I wish you could stay here for the time it will take to heal. The Maker set a hard path before you today, but I know you’re strong enough to walk it.”

She tried again to pin her emotions to words, and to string the words into a sentence. All she could manage was, “I’ll miss you.”

“And we will all miss you. Until you come home.”


End file.
